So, what were CDF commandos doing out here taking pictures of Susan?

He already knew the answer: They were doing surveillance, ready to kidnap her if they thought it was going to be necessary. He was now pretty certain the dreams he'd had were not dreams. He and Herman had been debriefed- quizzed under drugs while a commando team waited here to be told whether or not to seize Susan.

Had he and Herm "passed" the test? Is that why she had been left alone? Is that why they had been released?

Herman saw hybrid aliens, but Jack was trained to see evidence, and these footprints under the wall were definitely evidence.

He turned and walked back inside. He sat down on the sofa and listened to Herman's rant.

Herman was jazzed, talking about Area 51, Dreamland, The Ranch, Aurora Whisperships, and a bunch of other Roswell nonsense. Jack listened, but his mind drifted. Suddenly, Herman unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down.

Okay, Jack thought. I'm outta here.

Herman was showing Susan an abdominal surgical wound with four stitches.

"What is it?" Susan asked.

"Somebody did some kinda operation on me."

Jack didn't like this. In fact, he hated it.

"I had an arrhythmia in the helicopter," Herman was saying. "It was gone when I woke up."

"Dad, you've got to go get checked out."

"I will. But, honey, I've never felt better. I feel reborn, like I'm ten years younger. Like this heart problem somehow got fixed."

Herman and Susan sat transfixed, but Jack needed air again, so he told them what he had found under the wall. They all trooped outside and looked at the footprints. Herman took photos.

Jack had another thought. "Herm, did you have any dreams while you were asleep out there?"

"Yeah, I dreamed about some huge, winged bat-humanoids, and some reptile men that my old clients, who once worked there-"

"Forget the Japanese animation," Jack interrupted. "Was there anything else, more like memories of what you did over the last few days?"

"Yeah. I had a strange kinda dream that was exactly like my trip out to JPL. My talk with Dr. Zimbaldi."

"I think before we take you to the hospital we need to go check on Zimbaldi."

"Why?"

"I don't think you were dreaming, Herm. I think we were both spilling our guts. I think Zimmy is about to eat it."

Zimmywasn't at JPL, but Jack got his home addressfrom the Security Office by flashing his fancy new imitation ostrich P.I. license holder and saying: "Police."

The girl handed him a slip of paper and said, "Zimmy told me yesterday they're painting his apartment. I think he's staying at his ex-wife's place."

"Could I have her address, please?" Jack smiled, giving her his best ten-megawatt meltdown.

"Montrose Apartments, 2300 Montrose Boulevard in Montrose. Apartment ten."

He ran back to Barbra's Mercedes, where Herman and Susan were waiting. He jumped in the car and headed west on the Foothill Freeway, hoping Montrose was in that direction. He was lucky. Montrose Boulevard was a freeway exit.

The apartment house was a two-story, sixties-type building: a gray stucco box with white trim. He pulled past and parked across the street in somebody's driveway.

Jack had grabbed his backup gun from the trunk of the Fairlane before they left Malibu. It was an S amp;W Model 60, lightweight, three-inch barrel, burnished finish, and it was under his coat, jammed in his belt Billy-the-Kid style. "Okay… whatever you do, don't leave the car until I get back."

Herman and Susan nodded grimly.

He walked to the corner and bought the Los Angeles Times from a newspaper box, transferred the revolver from his belt to the inside of the folded newspaper, tucked it under his arm and crossed the street.

He entered the building courtyard, spotted apartment ten on the second floor at the end of the corridor, then climbed the interior stairwell and banged on the door. "Dr. Zimbaldi?"

Nothing.

He knocked again and tried the door. Locked. When he rattled the knob, it felt like there was no deadbolt, just a button lock. Another job for Wells Fargo Bank. Jack took out his credit card, slipped it into the space between the door lock and the jamb, then pushed.

Credit approved.

It was a very ordinary, sparsely furnished apartment. He moved quickly through the neat two-bedroom, one-bath layout, then ended up in the small kitchen. There was no sign of Zimmy or his ex-wife.

He walked out onto the balcony, which offered a quasi-view of the Valley. Jammed into that small space were a wooden chair, an orange Weber barbecue, and a chest-style Amana freezer from the horse and buggy era. Jack opened the freezer, praying that Zimmy wouldn't be inside curled up next to the flank steak. The Amana was filled with ice cream. He snagged a container of Rocky Road, pried it open, then went back inside to borrow a spoon from the kitchen.

The P.I. takes an ice cream break.

Two blocks away a windowless, brown Econoline van pulled up and parked off Foothill Boulevard. Inside Vincent Valdez watched a GPS monitor with a small locator light flashing on the LED map screen, then said: "He's around the corner on Montrose."

Marine Captain Norm Pettis, who had flown in from D.C. with Valdez on a private jet that morning, was seated next to the assistant director in a little command chair bolted to the floor of the van.

"Strockmire should lead us to Zimbaldi," Valdez continued. "We move in fast and take everybody. But, whatever you do, make sure you get that encrypted file." It was hot in the van and moisture was collecting under his armpits. He didn't want to stain his Armani jacket, so he took it off. "Turn on the engine and get the air going," he ordered the driver.

"Whatta you wanna do?" Captain Pettis asked. "Looks like he's just parked over there."

"Take a walk down the street and hang an eyeball on them. Lemme know what you see."

Pettis pushed a computerized receiver chip into his ear, fixed a pin mike to his lapel, then opened the van doors. He was dressed in chinos and a sport jacket. The only uniform issue he wore were his J-6 laced leather jump boots. He liked them because they gave him good ankle support and had reinforced metal toes. He jumped out of the van, then sauntered casually down the block, turning the corner on Montrose Boulevard.

Almost immediately, he saw Herman Strockmire and his daughter, Susan, sitting in a silver Mercedes.

"I have our people in sight," Pettis said into his lapel mike. "Whatta you want me to do? They're just sitting in a Mercedes looking across the street at the apartment house."

"Go check the mailboxes, see if anything over there lights up."

Captain Pettis entered the Montrose Apartment courtyard and began to quickly scan the mailboxes. On the second row, two from the end, a typed face card read: donna zimbaldi.

"Looks like a sister, or an ex-wife or somethin' lives here. Donna Zimbaldi, apartment ten," he said into the pin mike.

"Go sell her some mags," Valdez instructed.

"Roger."

The mailboxes were locked, but bulk mail was in open trays under each box. So Captain Pettis went magazine shopping. He picked out a Vogue, a Redbook, and a few other women's magazines, then went upstairs and knocked on the door of Donna Zimbaldi's apartment.

Jack heard the knock, set down the ice cream, and crossed to the door, snapping up the newspaper off the kitchen counter as he passed. Holding his gun in his left hand, he folded the paper over it, then opened the door with his right.

"Hi," Norm Pettis said. "I'm with Helping Hands and we're selling magazine subscriptions to benefit the Children's Cancer Center. Is Mrs. Zimbaldi at home?" Pettis thought the guy in the apartment looked familiar-like the P.I. in the briefing photos they'd taken at Area 51, but he wasn't absolutely sure.